


A good teammate

by Anonymous



Category: Formula E RPF, Motorsport RPF
Genre: M/M, hold my vokda soda, like i have no clue what im doing lads
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-14
Updated: 2018-03-14
Packaged: 2019-03-31 06:44:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13969557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Jean-Éric will admit to having plenty of first-hand experience with fear to pick up on the nuance of how it sounds second-hand. It's still not enough to inspire pity, though, Di Grassi has a ways to sink before Jean-Éric actually feels sorry for the bastard.Speaking of bastards, Jean-Éric finds himself focusing again at the task at hand; he owes André a drink or seven.





	A good teammate

**Author's Note:**

> So Hong Kong happened: Jev won superpole driving in reverse, and then Sam stole the race win out from under him. André wrecked and DNF'd, pictures of Sam holding a Jeroboam and getting cozy with Jean-Éric on a couch sprang into existence fully-formed, and I had a severe crisis of faith.
> 
> In said breakdown, I wrote this, which is Jean-Éric pretending not to miss Sam as much as he probably shouldn't and does. It probably has heavy petting in it. I'm sorry in advance.

There's something undeniably fresh about the after party, Jean-Éric muses -- not just in the sense of it being trendy in a way he's probably at least five years too old for (and god but that line of thinking won't help anything at all, so he may as well stop it right there).

Something... jittery, anxious, newly uncovered, Jean-Éric supposes, although not too impressed with the implications of the pervasive l'air du temps. It's too easy to hook on to the over-bright smiles of men telling themselves platitudes to keep the first cracks on the fresh ice of the season at bay. Di Grassi is being uncharacteristically loud by the bar of the upper deck of the party boat they've been booked onto for the next two nights, his --

"-- well that's the beauty of the series, the chaotic burst of the first years of innovation truly even the playing field!"

\-- seems shrill and fraying. Athough, even as the comment makes him grimace, Jean-Éric will admit to having plenty of first-hand experience with shellacking enough sheer energy over carbonated fear to pick up on the nuance of how it sounds second-hand. It's still not enough to inspire pity, though, Di Grassi has a ways to sink before Jean-Éric actually feels sorry for the bastard.

Speaking of bastards, Jean-Éric finds himself focusing again at the task at hand -- literally, as grip tightens on the two glasses he's carrying. He owes André a drink or seven, although he'll have to pay up on most of those tomorrow night. He slides into an open space along the bar -- nowhere near Di Grassi and the people asking him questions -- and spends a moment flagging the bartender who busily acknowledges Jean-Éric's place in her queue while juggling three other drink orders. He turns in place, the restless energy of the crowd infringing on the edges of his mind despite his best efforts, and casts a glance back at where André is standing -- appart from the crowd, leaning against the railing looking stuck somewhere between pleasantly amused and surly. It's a good look on him, Jean-Éric is slightly loath to admit. He spares a thought on whether his teammate is in too much of a mood to be coerced into some social media-appropriate cuddling for the sake of his Insta story.

"What can I get for you?" is what startles Jean-Éric out of his contemplation.

"Two vodka sodas," he says, half turning and offering what he hopes passes for a smile, pushing the empy glasses towards her. "Please." He taps the wristband that marks him property of Techeeta and likewise endows the drinks with their complementary status, and she nods while scooting off to do as asked.

He's got two fresh glasses just back in hand, the condensation making them slick in his grip, when there's a warm weight nudging its way onto his far shoulder, followed by a --

"That seems like an awful lot of libation for man expected to put up a respectable performance in the too near future."

\-- muttered rather too closely to his ear and with a very particular British inflection.

"Oh fuck off Sam," and Jean-Éric is very very careful to keep his tone light.

He takes a moment to mourn how well he'd been playing the part of the demure Mr. Congeniality (made easier, certainly, when you have a teammate who's in desperate need of a good cheering up and takes well wishes gracefully). Trust Sam to be confident enough in his charms to revisit old friction.

"I'm being a good teammate and consoling my other half," Jean-Éric finds himself further explaining, much to his horror, without actual prompting.

He's thankfully managed to keep his tone somewhat snide, although there'll soon be no hiding the fact that Sam's teasing's put color on his cheeks. The plan is to be somewhere far further away from his ex-teammate and far closer to his current one before Sam has enough time to stare at his face in the shifting party lights to figure that out. Sam's no closer to retreating back out of Jean-Éric's personal space, so Jean-Éric can actually feel more than hear it when Sam tilts his head and hums consideringly.

"Evans has that all tied up on my end, which thanks -- Alex is a handful when he gets morose, and Mitch practically exudes mood balancing pheromones when he feels like it," Sam sighs, not quite slurring. "Nifty trick, that."

"Are you actually drunk?" Jean-Éric interjects before he can help himself, only mildly scandalized.

"What? God no, what do you take me for?" Sam looks a bit affronted. "Two long haul flights, only a four hour nap before free practice this morning. I'm buggered for sleep."

Which can be worse than drink, Jean-Éric knows. What he doesn't know, still, is the point of this conversation. Jean-Éric's thinking on how exactly to get that information out of the other man when he's suddenly blanketed by warm, fuzzy Brittish driver without much warning. Sam sighs and snuggles further into his side. It's actually relatively alarming.

"Come sit with me," Sam suggests.

"Drinks?" Jean-Éric says, almost helplessly sloshing around the ice in the two glasses just to hear the sound of the ice singing against the crystalline walls. "Being a good teammate?"

"Right, give Lotterer his consolation vodka and a pat on the back, and then come sit with me," Sam grouses, only slightly disentangling himself from where he's barnacled onto Jean-Éric. "I miss you, and you owe me."

The first sends Jean-Éric's heart for a spin cycle, and any attempt he might've made to clarify the second is lost when Jean-Éric realizes the smaller man has dissolved back into the crowd by the time he's able to fumble English words back into sentences again. Jean-Éric feels his grip slipping on the two sweaty glasses, and tightens his hands around them, all but running for the safety blanket of André's judgemental wistfulness.

He supposes he'll actually have to go find Sam sooner or later, but later, Jean-Éric thinks, if Sam's giving him a choice in the matter.

(TBC, probably)


End file.
